


Mental Disorder

by Agib



Series: Febuwhump 2020 [14]
Category: Criminal Minds (US TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Bad Parenting, Child Abandonment, Episode: s04e07 Memoriam, Happy Ending, Mental Health Issues, Nightmares, Oblivious Spencer Reid, Platonic Soulmates, Protective Derek Morgan, Romantic Soulmates, Schizophrenia, Self Confidence Issues, Slow Burn, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Soulmates, more like medium burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-20
Updated: 2020-06-14
Packaged: 2021-02-22 10:00:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22814404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Agib/pseuds/Agib
Summary: In a world where everybody has a name somewhere on them of their 'second-half,' the BAU often has cases relating to unsub's with motives surrounding the markings.Spencer keeps his to himself, mostly because having a burned and scarred over mark is taboo, and he loves his mother. She didn't do this to hurt him, she was sick, he understood that.
Relationships: Could be Platonic??!!, Derek Morgan/Spencer Reid, Diana Reid & Spencer Reid, Past Diana Reid/William Reid, Spencer Reid & The BAU Team
Series: Febuwhump 2020 [14]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1619311
Comments: 45
Kudos: 907





	1. Scarred Over

**Author's Note:**

> .Warnings for Schizophrenia

Lashes against his eyelids, content in a blissful rest, he had been having a stunning dream. Some lingering warmth was all that remained now. With one arm splayed beneath the cool side of his pillow and a single leg hiked up in line with his ribcage, he was awoken.

“Reid,” – and now Hotch’s voice was interrupting well needed time out – “We’ve got a case briefing in thirty.” Reid groaned, rubbing at his left eye lazily before turning his head back into the comforter. “Bring a go-bag, it’s a big case. There’s already eight bodies.”

_Shit_.

“Eight?” He asked groggily, sitting himself upright in bed and pulling his phone from its cord and bringing it to his ear. “Eight bodies?” He repeated.

“Yes, get down here as soon as you can.” Hotch’s side of the line clicked off and Spencer heaved himself out of bed with another guttural moan. He glanced at the clock on his way to the bathroom, two forty-three in the morning. Knowing the others, they would arrive before him seeing as they either lived closer or were already out clubbing.

He absentmindedly traced the grout beside his sink as the shower warmed, staring at himself in the mirror. He ran a delicate finger over the raised, discoloured patch of skin on his right bicep before lowering his arm, sighing and stepping under the spray.

\----

“Eight bodies, once a day since last Thursday evening. They’re typically found the next morning, and we think – based on the photos – we’ve already found a potential motive.” JJ gestured to the pictures on the table spread out before them.

“They all have the same injuries in different places,” Morgan points out, his fingers tapping various points on the bodies.

“No, not injuries… scars.” Reid corrects, pulling one of the pictures closer to himself. “They’ve all had their marks removed. By the looks of it, a fair time ago too.”

Penelope frowns sadly, leaning back in her chair and tracing the mark on her own wrist wistfully. She was a romantic, an optimist. She believed as much as anyone could in the marks they were given.

“They’ve all scarred over,” Hotch adds. “The unsub didn’t do this.” Hotch was less believing, or at least since he lost Haley, he understood the flip side of finding your second half. Not having them felt like missing a part of yourself.

“But he likely targeted them because of it,” Morgan contributed. Morgan was quiet about his positioning on ‘mates’ as most aptly named them. He never mentioned anything about his mark, or his stance on them, aside from when cases required discussion on the topic as they were doing now.

“I looked into the system to see if any of the victims had registered their marks before, well – before removing them,” Penelope was still silently tracing her wrist with two gentle fingers as she spoke. “None had,” she finished. Penelope was always rather fragile during cases involving soul markers, it pained her to see so many people who fought against what she believed was fate. Of course everybody had their own opinions, and she respected that wholeheartedly, but there was some lingering desolation surrounding the idea that some people never wanted to find that missing piece of themselves.

“Right,” Hotch said carefully, running his eyes over the family members on the case files. “Once we land Morgan, Reid, Prentiss, you’ll speak with the victim’s families and try to figure out their stance on their markings. See if they were all the same.” The three nodded, listening half-heartedly to Hotch dishing out tasks for the remainder of the team.

\----

The first victim had been the daughter of a split household, and considering her biological father lived out of state and had for years, the three of them focused on the mother’s home.

When the woman opened her door, her eyes were red-rimmed and a damp tissue was clutched in her shaking hand. She looked miserable, and the three of them ached for her as they would for every person who knew the victims they sought justice for.

“Hi ma’am,” Emily greeted tenderly. “We’re from the behavioural analysis unit, this is Agent Morgan and Doctor Reid, I’m agent Prentiss. Is there any chance we could speak with you about your daughter?” The woman accepted, ushering them inside welcomingly.

The mother was inviting, the stepfather, once they were in the house, was less so. The man was stiff and clearly on edge, obviously uncomfortable with the added intrusion into his home. Prentiss led the conversation, speaking with the mother about when and why her daughter had removed her marker. She was careful with her words, avoiding any conversational landmines of grief like an expert.

“Well, she had bad experiences in high school with boyfriends, and I guess you could say she was less trusting of people – or, everything I guess...” The mother sighed, leaning forward on the lounge chair, and smiling weakly at her partner across the hall in the kitchen. “I think the doubt shifted into her opinions about soulmates and whatnot.” The woman looked worn down and ragged, and the three of them hating having to scratch at a barely healed scab with all these questions. The woman glanced at each of them, as if running them down for any visible markers. “Do you believe, agent Prentiss?” She asked quietly.

“I don’t have disbelief,” Emily began after a moment’s hesitation. “But I don’t actively ignore relationships because someone’s name doesn’t match my destiny,” she explained plainly. The mother seemed to soften at that, the lines around her eyes crinkling acceptingly.

“Oh, good. I just – I know my belief is unconventional, and I never wanted to influence my girl on the matter, especially after the divorce.” Prentiss nodded for her to continue, waiting patiently as the woman spoke. “I tried not to comment, but she seemed to make up her own mind.” Prentiss smiled respectfully, nodding once more in approval and silent support of the woman.

“I can show you her room, agents,” the stepfather said, breaking the silence. He gestured upstairs indicatively. “I’m sure you need to take a look like the cops did.” Morgan rose, accepting the invitation for potential evidence. Perhaps they could find a diary, or some other form of motive. Prentiss followed, but not without wordlessly checking that Reid was happy to stay downstairs with the mother.

He listened to the three of them ascending the staircase before turning his attention back to the mother who sat distractedly, staring at a pattern on the coffee table.

“Do you think this is my fault?” She whispered.

“No,” Reid amended immediately. “You did everything right in raising her impartially to your own opinions,” he said sternly. The woman hummed, only half convinced. Spencer shuffled in his seat on the couch, unconsciously bringing his hand up to his own arm. “I – my mother is very different,” he admitted. The woman perked up, looking intent, and if he couldn’t do much else to help her, he would give her this much. “She made it clear what she thought about this kind of thing. She uh – she didn’t want me to have one, and took care of it when I was… really young.”

He loved his mother, but he occasionally wondered what things would have been like if she was different, more stable when he was a young child.

The mother of the first victim looked at him lightly, reaching out a hand and touching it to his own in an affectionate and pitying gesture.

“She had it removed?” She asked carefully.

“I – she… y – yeah,” he nodded solemnly. The woman pursed her lips in empathy and removed her hand.

\----

After the body count hit double digits, they released a profile. Several calls came in that made no progress, but after several hours of continued investigation and developing the profile more, there was a tip from a workplace that sounded exactly like their unsub.

“That… sounds familiar,” Garcia mumbled when Hotch rattled the address off to her. “Yeah, the first victim’s stepfather, he works in the building our caller is from, and matches the physical description.”

The team were ready, dressed and in the vehicles on their way to the house, after fifteen minutes. Hotch was organising positions, sending Morgan and Prentiss to the back of the home, himself flanking the front alongside JJ and Reid.

Rossi was on the phone to the mother, who was on her way from work, ready to placate her and keep distance between her and the scene when she arrived home.

“FBI!” Hotch yelled as he burst through the door behind Reid, JJ not far behind.

The stepfather, their unsub, had a gun of his own, and had holed himself up behind the kitchen island, his back to the hallway, facing the three of them with a wild, unhinged look in his eyes.

“It wasn’t my fault! They all went against their own fate!” He was shouting. His elbow displayed a white, faded marking. He had lost his second half, assumingly the stressor the team believed had set him off.

“I understand that, but you need to calm down,” Hotch conceded. “Sir, put the weapon down and come without trouble.” The man shook his head feverishly, ignoring the unit chief’s words with a fierce stubbornness.

“They burned away their fate,” he hissed. “Lived their lives in denial!” He was snarling now, his words riling him back up to a dangerous state.

“If you cooperate, we can lessen the sentencing, just put your gun down,” Reid baited. The man turned to meet his eyes furiously. His fingers wrapped tighter around the gun. “There are people who understand what it’s like to lose someo –”

“Shut up!” The man howled. “You’re the same! You’re ungrateful,” the man spat, clicking his safety off. The noise was loud in the marble kitchen, and Reid could immediately see Hotch and JJ readying themselves to fire, arms stiffening in the position they held.

“I had no choice in the matter,” he ventured cautiously. “You have a choice now. You can come with us, nobody else needs to be hurt.” He lowered his own gun, knowing Hotch would berate him later for it but trusting everybody else to have is back if things backfired. “If you shoot, you’re ridding someone else of their second half and you know it. If you really believe there is someone out there for everyone, then killing people hurts their mate too. You know that.”

“I do know,” their unsub said, stature beginning to calm again. “But _you_ – you don’t care. That’s why I have to do this,” the man said firmly.

Reid moved on instinct, dropping out of range as soon as he heard the telling, resigned attitude in the unsub’s voice. He had worked for long enough to recognise when an unsub was about to pull their trigger.

If he heard correctly through the haze of yelling and gunfire, Reid counted three shots. When the all clear was given, he saw Hotch tucking his gun away, which had clearly been fired. There was a bullet hole in the wall behind where his own head had been, no doubt courtesy of their unsub, who was on the floor with Morgan directly behind him. There was a hole in the opposite wall and another in the fleshy meat of their unsub’s bicep.

“Reid, you okay?” Hotch implored, helping him up from the floor with one steady hand.

“Yeah, thanks,” he mumbled in response. Morgan finally tucked his gun away, crossing the room and giving his shoulder a tight squeeze that said _thanks for not getting yourself shot this time, kid._

\----

After whirlwind of papers and a record timing confession from the man, the team was back on the jet to Quantico. 

“How did he work out you fit his victim type?” Morgan asked him quietly once the rest of the team had either distracted themselves or conked out in one of the jet’s couches. His head was tilted to the side as he waited for an answer, watching Reid’s eyes move from the page he had been skimming from.

“I spoke with the first victim’s mother,” Spencer responded. “She was tearing herself up about whether her belief had influenced her daughter too much. She thought she had gotten her killed.”

“She seemed held together when Emily and I came down,” Morgan pointed out.

“I told her about my mother, and she felt a lot better about the way she raised her daughter.” Spencer looked away, staring out of the window as Derek eyed him cautiously, not wanting to probe too harshly into the younger man’s life. 

They were silent for a long moment before Spencer answered the question he knew his co-worker was biting back. “She got rid of mine before I could read,” he conceded.

“Spencer,” Derek began.

“No, I – I’m not upset,” Reid interjected quickly. He despised the pity in people’s voices when they found out, because it was never his mother’s fault. He didn’t want any blame to rest on her. “I understand why she did it.” He sighed loudly, swivelling his eyes around back to Derek’s. “It was during one of her bigger episodes. She uh, thought it was the government’s way of controlling us – sometimes she still does.”

“I’m sorry.” Derek twists his fingers together, watching Spencer absentmindedly tracing his upper arm.

“Don’t be,” the kid said. “She did it because she was sick, not because she wanted to hurt me.” He shrugs lightly, his face loosening into a less desolate expression. “Besides, I feel like it doesn’t matter much,” he brings his hands together wringing them as a distraction, mimicking Derek’s previous actions. “When I meet them, I’ll know.”

“Yeah,” Derek murmurs. He drums his own fingers softly against the raised skin of his thigh, covered by his work pants. 

He spent so much time staring down at his own lettering that he could conjure the curve of each letter perfectly, no doubt in his mind.

_Spencer Reid._


	2. You Need to be Sure

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _\- “Maybe Reid could find out what it said in S4 when they see Reid's Dad?”  
>  \- “I would love if you continued this and we got to see Reid finding out Morgan has his name!! I can't imagine the drama that would cause, especially since Morgan probably assumed until now that Reid wasn't interested, since he'd never mentioned being soulmates.”  
> \- “Please at least let him tell Reid please tell me there’s a part 2 where he sees it or something anything.”  
> \- “Romantic please let it be romantic.”_
> 
> \----
> 
> Gimme CM prompts pls <3  
> tumblr ~ @svn-f1ower

Their unsub was blonde, delusional. She clutched a bundle of sheets wrapped around a sizeable lump against her chest.

Through the flames of the bonfire she had created, Morgan could see the glazed-over look in her eyes. Someone who was not all there. He prickled when she stepped forward, hands shaking as she outstretched her arms slightly.

“Do you have a shot?” Rossi asks, punctuating each word without having to remove his eyes from the woman.

“Yes,” he answers. “I got one.” _I just don’t want to have to take it._ The woman wasn’t even looking at him as he approached carefully. She was watching the fire like it was alive, like it stared right back at her.

“I’ve got Michael! I’ve got Michael.” Reid’s voice fills the comm line.

He immediately lowers the gun, barely registering as the rest of his teammates follow suit.

Reid has left his earpiece on, because of the rush or for extra confirmation on the team’s benefit, Morgan isn’t sure. There are soft, muffled footsteps against carpet and then the subdued staticky noise that everyone seems to recognise as the sound of an audio sensor being squashed by a hug. “I gotcha, I’ve gotcha,” Spencer breathes.

Morgan has hardly heard the youngest agent speak so gently, likely because he never seems to be the one that handles the victims they end up saving. Morgan has never believed in the ‘Reid effect.’ Clooney always had a soft spot for the genius, at least on the rare occasion the team’s movie nights were held in his home.

When their unsub pulls Morgan from his own head, it’s so she can toss the bundle of blankets and what appears to be a child’s stuffed bear into the flames. He stiffens, the slightest chance that there could be any living child in those sheets has his heart pounding in his throat before he sees the stuffing pouring from the toy and mixing with the dirty ashes.

They hold off on the cuffs for as long as possible, and Morgan doesn’t hang around the dusty backyard to watch as Rossi eventually has to use them.

Emily is crouched beside a surprisingly sterile couch where both Reid and a young boy are carefully sat. The boy has one hand fisted in the crease where Reid’s shirt is folded at his elbow, and he seems perfectly content to further disprove the agent’s theory that both children and dogs alike hated his every fibre. It takes Morgan aback when he realises how endearing it is to see the younger man letting a child squish himself up against his side, twitching while Hotch is on the phone with his parents.

The mother is grateful when the unit chief pats the child’s back and sends him off running into her arms. The father thanks both JJ and Hotch, his eyes sweeping over the rest of the team who hover around the unsub’s home. Morgan knows the man still holds slight contempt for Reid after his nightmare, and granted it hadn’t been ideal, but the fact that the agent had been the one to find his son should count for something.

\----

_“Mom – Mom, it’s burning… It – it’s burning me!” The sound of fingernails raking over skin drowns out the rustling of sheets._

_He ends up having to dig his fingers into the kid’s shoulders before he manages to shake himself back into consciousness._

_There’s a damp patch a few inches above where Spencer’s hiked up sleeve ends, and once the closest lamp is flicked on, he can see the copper tint to it._

_The sleeve is rolled further down in retaliation of the prying gaze Derek can’t stop himself from delivering._

_While the younger agent gathers himself, Morgan sees to the stern, concrete expressions on the parents faces who hover on the stairs unhappily. Once they’re appeased, he lets out a cooling breath._

_“I’m making everything worse,” Spencer murmurs from behind him. Morgan promptly seats himself on the coffee table – manners be damned – and levels the kid with a serious gaze._

_“Reid…” He shakes his head, tilting it to convey the pain behind the honesty he’s gearing up for. “These cases get to all of us.” They’ve all been here, and although it aches him to see Spencer like this, it’s not unexpected, and that fact almost makes it hurt more._

_“I – I’m losing it in their living room. And I’m dreaming… I’m – I… I don’t –”_

_“What the hell is scaring you?” Spencer ignores him, gingerly rubbing one hand over the bloody patch on his shirt sleeve. He must have scratched at the scar so harshly that he tore it back open like a scab. Morgan nods, wordlessly understanding the kid’s refusal to speak any longer. “Does this happen often?” He asks after a moment._

_“No, I never – it’s never been this bad before.”_

_“But it has ‘been’ before, hasn’t it?” Morgan does the best he can to soften his expression. Spencer doesn’t take it in stride, his brows wrinkle and he squeezes his eyes shut for a moment. He’s defiant, mortified even. The putrefied expression on his face makes Morgan think he hates himself for letting this become an issue._

_“It – maybe. Yeah. But it… it’s getting worse, like a progression.” The kid shuffles around on the couch uncomfortably, gently running two fingers over his upper arm where Morgan assumes the burnt-over mark lies._

_His lip twitches, and he wants to say something so horridly selfish._ Maybe the dreams are getting worse because you’ve met them – met _me_. You’re supposed to know by now. _But he clamps his tongue down instead, holding the words in his throat._

_Because this isn’t about him, or what he needs – what he wants. It’s about Spencer. And if the kid believes he shouldn’t need a name to know, then Morgan isn’t going to go against his wish._

\----

Reid is staring off into the distance, standing stiffly by the corner of the house and away from the cluster of specialty teams that have been called in. Morgan can tell Reid hadn’t noticed the stony look that crossed the father’s face when his eyes dragged over in Spencer’s direction.

He approaches the kid, waits patiently for his attention. One side of his overgrown hair is tucked haphazardly behind his left ear, and the other falls over the right side of his face, rustling earnestly when he turns to face Morgan. The jut of the FBI vest he wears is noticeable on his small frame, and his neatly buttoned and tied shirt collar stands stark in opposition to Morgan’s own, which is untucked and unbuttoned.

“You know, this is about as good a day as we’re gonna get on this job.” He watches as Reid processes his words, ignores the way the man has shifted to look at him and not the scene in front of them as he had been earlier.

“I know,” he says quietly.

“And yet, you’re still thinking about this,” he lifts a hand, not touching – never touching him – and points to the general vicinity where he knows the kid’s useless mark sits.

One part of him wants so badly to see it, to trace the mound of scarring and measure the length of it. To guess if his own name could fit under the space of the old burn. And the other, logical, part of himself wants to forget about it, because as the kid had pointed out before, there are hundreds of people in this world with the same name as you. For all he knows, _his_ Spencer Reid could be someone entirely different to the eccentric, sheltered and fiercely loyal genius that stands in front of him.

“After my first birthday, my Mother thought I was in danger.”

“Reid, your Mother wasn’t well,” he says plainly.

“She thought the government would use it to control me,” Spencer admits quietly.

“You don’t need it, just like you said,” Morgan says, trying to keep the dejected tone from his voice. The younger man tilted his chin upwards, looking him in the eye with more stoicism that he figured the kid could conjure.

“I don’t think you really believe that,” the young man bites. He quirks a brow, trains his expression into one of practised indifference in challenge of Spencer’s words. “You stiffen up when I say things,” Reid points out, continuing without hesitation. “But never when Penelope does, and she’s one of the most avid believers I’ve ever met.”

Morgan looks away, tensing his jaw.

Penelope was positive, practically cradled her wrist where her own mark sat. Spencer was… Spencer was the opposite of her optimism, and Derek suspected the kid would be different if he hadn’t lost his own mark. Sure, his belief would be rooted in reality – in something logical and tangible he could grasp onto, but he wouldn’t dismiss it – wouldn’t actively state that he didn’t _need_ it to find someone.

“You wanna know what I really believe?” Morgan asks incredulously. Spencer juts his chin forward in invitation. “I believe this is always gonna be worrying around in that big brain of yours. You aren’t going to be able to just let it go, because you want to know everything you possibly can.” Reid scowls in thought, looking at his feet. “But you should try to. If you really think you don’t need a name, then give it up already. You shouldn’t torture yourself over this, kid.”

Spencer blinks, avoiding eye contact as Morgan continues. “Your man Carl Jung says our unconscious is the key to our life’s pursuits.” It feels good to be the one quoting other people for once, like he’s given his argument a foothold.

“Yeah, yeah…” Spencer mumbles.

“Let yourself figure this out, don’t dwell on the fact that you weren’t handed the answer on a golden platter like the rest of us. Trust me, you don’t need it. You’ll just know.” Morgan thinks _he_ knows. There could be several Spencer Reid’s out there, but none of them could hold a candle to the one standing beside him now.

He offers a kind-hearted pat on the side of Reid’s shoulder, effectively wrapping their conversation up as Hotch approaches. He pivots his attention, still focusing on _not_ noticing how the kid’s eyes stay plastered on him in an unreadable expression.

“Hotch, do you think it would be possible to wait until tomorrow to return home?” The request was unlike Reid, but both Hotch and Morgan were perfectly aware of how little opportunity the younger agent had to visit his mother.

“Do you think you could find something to do in Las Vegas for the night?” Hotch asks him, and although the man hardly smiled, the crinkle at the corner of his eyes suggested the amusement he was aiming at Morgan.

He answered the question with a grin of his own, only having to force it slightly. He glances in Reid’s direction, his smile lessening for a moment as the kid turns back to surveying the horizon. Eventually, he trails alongside Hotch and leaves the younger agent to scrunch his face in thought.

He’s worried, but he knows the kid will drop it, he does have a tendency to favour logical, understandable science above the unanswerable pairings the universe seems to present people with.

\----

“I also remember we moved houses, and you and Dad argued about it a – and you told Dad that I was in danger.”

“Because you were.”

“Why – why did you think that?” He runs a hand through his hair, biting the sensitive, chewed up portion of his cheek. He knows why, after being off her medication during pregnancy, it had thrown her into an unstable patch.

“I just knew,” Diana assures. “You would have either been shepherded around by the government, or gotten your heart broken by him. I told you, a mother _knows_. We’re animals, Spencer. We feel things.” Spencer blinks, leaning forward in his chair.

“H – him?”

“What’s that?” His mother hums, busy cutting up her steak.

“Him… Y – you said _him,_ Mom.” Diana looks down at her plate, frowning.

“I’ve told you hundreds of times, I’m sorry, I just don’t remember what it said.” Her left eye narrows at the corner and she doesn’t bother to look back up after she’s eaten another forkful.

\----

“Actually… I – I’m gonna stay for a couple of days.” Reid has his shoulder bag on, his hair is slightly more unkempt than on a typical day, but his clothing is put-together as usual.

“Is everything alright?” Rossi asks. The team, minus Hotch who is already at the airstrip, is gathered in the lobby of their hotel. They’re all carefully watching the young genius, surveying his face and words carefully.

“Yeah, I just, um – I haven’t seen my Mom for a really long time, so I’d like a few more days.” His neck is stretched and oddly straight. His shoulders are squared, and his eyes stay on Rossi’s for too long.

Morgan knows the kid too well by now, has all his tells memorised. With lying, or at least lying by omission, the man has a tendency to overcompensate. Holding eye contact is normally difficult for him. Standing perfectly upright with posture that would make a chiropractor proud is far from normal. The kid grew up trying to make himself a smaller target by hunching into himself, bending over books and developing geographical profiles by staring down at maps all day. This kind of stance is unnatural, and definitely a tell.

If Hotch were here, Morgan would be making eye contact with him right now, but all he has is Rossi who seems oblivious to the kid’s blatant falsehood. 

“You sure?” Is all the man asks, hardly a follow-up.

“Yeah,” Reid says. His eyes adhere to the rest of the team as they shuffle outside, not meeting Morgan’s gaze. JJ stops to say a few words, and Morgan finds himself lingering at the door until he manages to catch the younger agent with a pointed look.

_Take care of yourself._ He communicates silently before backing out onto the bright street.

In all honesty, it doesn’t surprise him when Rossi waves the rest of the team off to the airstrip and turns to speak with him.

“Hang back for ‘em with me?”

“Wouldn’t have dreamed otherwise,” Morgan says mock-cheerily.

\----

He’s room four-nineteen and the door is open a crack, which is worrying enough for him to gently rest one hand at his hip. Reid thinks otherwise, choosing to leave the gun in its concealed holster on the off chance that it’s room service – he doesn’t think pulling a weapon on housekeeping is the best of ideas.

Both Rossi and Morgan have made themselves at home. The minibar is cracked open and the television is playing an old show that Reid wouldn’t typically fancy.

“What’re you guys doing here?” He asks incredulously.

“Ay,” Morgan grins, swallowing a mouthful of chips like he hasn’t just planted himself in his co-worker’s room. He raises a lazy finger at the TV. “What’s it look like we’re doin’?”

“Uh, breaking into my room and watching Days of our Lives,” he huffs. He tries to drop the folder of documents onto a nearby chair inconspicuously, but it seems Morgan knows what he’s trying to accomplish with the slight movement.

“Young and the Restless,” Rossi mumbles.

“Aren’t you supposed to be on a plane back to D.C?” Spencer asks, not unkindly.

“You’re supposed to be hanging out with your Mom,” Rossi retorts. Spencer can see the way Morgan is giving him the eyebrows, one hand on a coffee cup and blinking at him accusingly.

“And you’re not,” the darker man says disappointedly. He watches as Reid wipes his nose, shifting uncomfortably like a deer in headlights, or an off put house cat that has been caught tearing up furniture. He glances to the kid’s bicep, where the blood had been.

“No, it – it’s not… that’s actually not why I’m… why I’m here at all.” He stumbles over his own words, rubbing his arm directly over the raised scarring distastefully.

“Reid,” Morgan deadpans. Rossi is watching the two of them with a distant look on his face. “Come on, man.” The tone in his voice makes something in Spencer’s spine curl unhappily, like a scolded child. “Who do you think you’re talking to?” Morgan sets his food down and pushes out of his chair as he speaks.

He can see how Spencer blinks at him as he rises, his eyes darting anywhere except for his eyes. The younger man’s throat bobs uncertainly when he swallows. “I know what this has been doing to you.”

He exhales shakily, stepping back when Rossi stands from his seat too.

“Let us help.”

Spencer glances over to Morgan, distrust heavy in his eyes. He is still angry the slightly older agent spoke to Hotch about his nightmares from years ago. The glare currently in his eyes say that he is offended Rossi was told anything about what they had discussed during the case. 

Derek would be guilt-ridden, but when he surveys the purple rings beneath the kid’s eyes, and the way he sags at the mere mention of help, it makes him far more confident in his own stubbornness.

“Maybe we can find you someone who can help,” Rossi suggests.

“I – I think I already know who to – who might be able to do that.” The change in both tone and posture gives Morgan an apprehensive feeling in his chest, Reid looks uncomfortable and nothing should be putting him in that position if it isn’t worth it. 

“I – he… I think,” he takes a breath. “I think I need to track down my father,” Spencer admits. He turns to gesture to the folder of papers. “That’s why I wanted to stay. I think he might still be in-state.”

The discomfort makes sense now, and Derek knows he shouldn’t ignore the feeling balled up in his chest that’s screaming _remove what’s causing him stress. Don’t let it hurt him._

“Reid, your father –”

“He left me. I know.” Spencer’s tone is harsh, he clearly doesn’t even enjoy speaking on the topic of his father.

“Some rocks don’t n –”

“Don’t need looking under,” Spencer grits, finishing for him. He sighs, heavily. “Morgan, I’ve come this far. I’ve – I told myself it doesn’t matter for long enough. I’m not ignoring it now.” He looks up, eyes shining in the hardly adequate lighting of the hotel room. 

He needs support now; he probably won’t handle going through this experience on his own. Digging through both information and his childhood, just to find someone that abandoned him half a lifetime ago, only to hope they would grant him a favour this large will be pain fuelled and gruelling. Derek knew all of this, and he also knows its selfish to indulge in this wild goose chase when he could probably just bare the marking on his own leg and see if it made any difference.

If it made a difference – if Spencer went along with it – things would change, likely for the better. But if the kid was indifferent – or worse, disgusted by the mere notion that they were two sides of the same coin – their obligatory working relationship would be back to square one.

And square one, being an acquaintance of someone so pure and _good_ while knowing you could be – were _meant_ to be – more, that was unacceptable.

“You need to be sure,” Morgan says eventually, keeping his tone deadly serious. 

_If you’re going to go upturning things in search for an answer, you better be damn-well prepared when you get an unsatisfactory outcome._

_Especially one like my name._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gimme CM prompts pls <3  
> tumblr ~ @svn-f1ower


	3. And It Hurts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gimme CM prompts pls <3  
> tumblr ~ @svn-f1ower

Morgan was all too aware of how petty he was being, letting Reid haul-ass over to a dusty work yard filled with sunburnt, sweaty men.

He could just have easily avoided all this – probably prohibited the poor kid’s nightmares – if he hiked one pant leg and propped up the incredibly blatant _Spencer Reid_ that had curled across his skin ever since he could remember.

But of course not.

Instead, he plays along and follows the man into the yard. They are the epitome of good cop, bad cop, and always have been. Hotch appreciates the back and forth the two of them have, unsurprisingly enough it works wonders on stubborn suspects, unsubs, witnesses, and the like.

Reid has his unruly hair tucked behind his ears, the dry Vegas heat curling it delicately at the edges. He is wearing a white button down, a plain tie wrapped professionally around his neck. Even his slacks are an off grey-blue instead of the unashamedly black jeans Morgan sports with an even darker skin-tight, short sleeve. The only thing that doesn’t differ is the gun at each of their hips, but then again, Spencer’s rests innocently at his waistline, grazing across his wrists as he walks. Derek’s is tucked away into a heavy holster at his side, barely noticeable.

They’re one hell of a sight, with the violent contrast they present.

For once, Spencer does the talking. He is patient and calm, dismissive of their man’s indifference. The guy is muttering things under his breath, asking who they were to come asking about William for no good reason.

Morgan isn’t surprised by the hostility. With his stature, the way he’s dressed and how he’s keeping his voice innocent, Spencer is coming across like a teenager playing authority figure. _Just because it’s endearing for me doesn’t mean it is for anyone else._

“So, were you friends?” Reid asks.

“Who the hell are you to come here, asking this?” Morgan tightens his stance, but their man isn’t physically hostile, in fact he’s turning his back on them to load his truck up. He loosens his shoulders minutely.

“I’m his son.” The man turns immediately, his interest kicking in as he takes a closer squint at the agent in front of him.

“Spencer?” The kid gives a half-hearted smile, rocking on his heels. Morgan gives the body language a sharp once-over before relaxing himself again. “Spencer, G-Man,” the nickname prickles something in his gut, but he squashes it reflectively. “How ‘bout that?”

“Where is he, these days?” Spencer questions, cutting right to the point despite the tell-tale tentativeness creeping into his voice. “My – my Dad?”

“It’s been years, but he’s probably still at that same firm in Summerlin.” Something in the kid’s shoulders releases, and he slumps visibly.

“He’s been in town this whole time?” There isn’t resentment in his voice, it’s closer to resigned disappointment, which is almost more upsetting for Morgan as he watches Spencer brush it off.

“Why’re you all the way out here looking for him?” Spencer shifts in discomfort; he presses his lips together before reaching out to touch his arm delicately.

“You know about my Mom…” he starts. The man before them both nods, his eyes flickering to where Spencer’s drawing circles over his upper arm, still staring at the floor timidly.

“I get it. I… I’m sure William will understand,” he offers.

The three of them stand for a moment, then Morgan extends a hand to shake.

“Thank you for your time,” he says briskly before backing up. He gives an encouraging pat to the kid’s lower torso in signal. He could feel the tautness in his muscles get worse as they shifted away from the conversation.

Spencer’s glaring at the ground now, his shoes twisting over clumps of dust. “You know Summerlin?” Morgan tries, staying close enough that the kid’s side brushed against his shoulder as they walked.

“Yeah,” he answers curtly. “It’s nine miles East of here, off the ninety-five.” He picks up pace, aiming for the passenger side of their car. “He was ten minutes away and never let me know.”

The door slams behind him, rocking the car. Morgan finds himself pausing once the keys are in the ignition. Spencer is stubbornly facing his window, jawline tensed beyond belief. Morgan opens his mouth to speak before surveying the crinkled frown peeling apart the kid’s face, and quickly shuts it again, abandoning hope for a heart-to-heart.

_God I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry._

The guilt weighs on him throughout the course of the drive. With every disgruntled huff from Spencer, the urge to pull over and lay down the facts gets stronger. 

The building was a concrete monstrosity, filled with windows and floors upon floors of attorneys typing away at computer screens. Spencer looks up at it like he expects the entire structure to swallow him whole.

_How was this fair?_ Derek thought. _Spencer has everlasting abandonment issues which all started with his father. Yet, here he was having to seek the man out because_ he _was too much of a coward to actually sit down and have a damned adult conversation with the kid about fate and whatever else could transpire from the name scrawled across his thigh._

“Reid –” he starts, moving to rub at his forehead. _This was the right thing to do. Talk to him about this._

“No, I don’t want to discuss this again,” Spencer says abruptly. Derek blanches, reacting on impulse when the younger man reaches for the door handle. The lock clicks beneath his fingers and he is met with a burning stare that’s about as intimidating as a wad of pillow stuffing. “Let me out,” Spencer grinds.

“Not until you’ve let me –”

“We aren’t going over this again! I get it, okay?” Reid pinches the bridge of his nose, exhaling as his free hand methodically pulls at the door handle. “I understand you think this is me trying to know everything, but it’s different.”

There’s a second in which the kid leans forward, and Derek can feel his entire body stiffen as the face of his co-worker of multiple years is shoving himself into his space. For once, the younger man is going against the large, blaring rule of personal space, and Morgan can feel his heartbeat in his throat because of it.

There is a soft click, and Spencer withdraws. It takes a long moment for Derek to comprehend what the kid’s just done. His spindly little fingers have managed to unlock the door, and by the time he opens his trap to protest, the man is already slipping out of the car into the parking lot. He ducks his head after a brief nod in the general direction where Rossi is waiting for them.

“Trust but verify,” Spencer murmurs as Derek jogs up to match his stride, the car locking behind them. The older agent looks across at him, one brow raised. “I trust myself, and I don’t doubt how I feel. I just want to verify, to be sure.”

Rossi is listening half-heartedly, his careful gaze silently praising Morgan for indulging the kid.

The guilt churns more aggressively.

\----

The walls of the office building are bland, and men in grey suits pace around like they’re on a mission. They look like clones, it’s unsettling.

Reid walks in first, one nervous hand running up the seam of his messenger bag strap. He’s looking down the hallway and entry room like he’s surveying for unsubs.

“Can I help you, gentlemen?” A woman who must be the receptionist asks.

“Yeah,” Reid breaths. His mouth hangs open like a plastic doll. Rossi leans against the curved front desk, watching him flail around to find his voice. It goes on for a stretch of five seconds. Finally, Reid turns to face Morgan, his eyes wide, throat convulsing with how much he’s swallowing.

He presses as much reassurance as possible into his answering stare before Rossi takes over and speaks with the receptionist. The entire time he keeps his eyes on Spencer, who is breathing like he’s suddenly developed severe asthma. His eyes are darting every which direction, and his hands flutter at his chest. He twitches when the receptionist tells them she will notify William of their presence.

“You okay?” He asks softly.

“Yeah,” Spencer croaks. He meets Derek’s eyes, “no – yeah, I – I’m going to go to the bathroom.” His shoulder brushes past as he scurries off, and Morgan immediately turns to Rossi, concern blazing in his expression.

“I’ve _never_ seen him like this before.” What had it been, over five years now? And he had never seen the kid struggling to bottle himself up this badly. They saw dead bodies every other week, dealt with the worst kind of killers, and none of it stacked up against the level of fright blazing in Spencer’s eyes when he turned to face his co-worker seconds beforehand. 

_Your fault, your fault, your fault._

“I’ll be back,” Morgan manages, having no doubt that Rossi’s eyes follow him all the way to the men’s room.

Spencer jerks when he pushes the door open, a testament to how pulled taught his nerves are.

His face is wet, he’s clutching several paper towels and scowling at the mirror with an intensity Derek has only seen from him twice before. Once, when the kid stared down the barrel of his own gun, defying a direct request from a delusional, multiple-personality unsub for the benefit of the team. And twice, when he had snapped at the principal who made light of their unsub’s torment at the hands of the student body.

“I know what you’re going to say,” Spencer rasps. He has propped himself up against the line of sinks, shaky hands finally dropping the paper towels into the bin at his side. “Please just – just give me your speech and leave me alone to fester.” The edges of his hair are stringy and damp from the water, the rest of it has curled significantly and Morgan isn’t opposed to the look.

“Jesus, kid.” Derek lets what he hopes is the right balance of exasperation and genuine worry into his tone. He’s rewarded with a lopsided and perhaps slightly forced smile from Spencer. “You gonna be alright?” He asks seriously, clasping one hand over the narrow jut of the younger man’s shoulder junction.

Reid shrugs, pulling one corner of his mouth downward. Morgan squeezes once gently in response.

“I want to know,” he admits quietly. “It’s not fair, everybody else just _knows,_ and I can never – I never will… unless I talk to him about this.”

Shame clouds Morgan’s head and he winces, covering it before the kid picks up his solecism. He drops his hand, leaning against the counter while Spencer white-knuckles the edge of the porcelain sinks. “Sorry,” he mutters, “I hope this isn’t dredging anything up for you.”

_Shit, kid. You’ve got no idea._

“Nah. You’re good, man,” he answers casually. Spencer relaxes slightly, straightening back out and smiling appreciatively. The fluorescent lights catch something bright in his eyes as he casts the warmest, most delicate expression in Morgan’s direction.

“Thank you then, for helping.”

Derek feels something coiled in his chest, that rests silently beside the guilt, soften at the words. “I’ll meet you out there,” Spencer says. He nods, stepping back and out of the room with a final, cautious glance to the younger agent.

The nightmares must have been a reoccurring aspect in his life because they have clearly impacted him physically. The rings beneath his eyes are stark against pale skin, and the exaggerated curvature of his cheekbones are pushing the boundary between angular and worryingly gaunt.

The bathroom door closes with a soft breeze of air behind Morgan as he makes his way up the hall and back into the reception area where Rossi stands. He’s presenting his credentials to someone.

The man looks like he could be related to Spencer, but he’s different in the kid’s defining features. His nose is angled in all the wrong directions, he’s far too short – five, ten if Morgan had to guess – his eyes are far apart, and he holds himself like a businessman. A man with confidence, far unlike his son.

“I’m agent Rossi,” Rossi says as he tucks the credentials away into his pocket. “This is agent Morgan.”

He flashes his own wallet I.D on instinct, wanting to sigh externally when William Reid squints at his name, raises both eyebrows and gives him a not-so-subtle once over that Rossi definitely picks up on.

“Do you uh – you work with a man named Spencer?”

_He knows, he knows, he knows._

“Yes, well that’s something we’d like to discuss with you today, Mr. Reid.” Rossi is keeping his composure as much as Morgan is attempting to keep his mouth shut.

“Did something happen?”

Distantly, Morgan can hear the swinging squeak of the bathroom door opening, and while Rossi keeps his eyes and focus on William, he turns to Spencer.

He smiles encouragingly, ignoring the way the younger man’s eyes don’t even meet his.

“Hello, Dad.” There’s accusation in the tone, not strongly heard but enough that he wants to reach out and lay another reassuring hand on Spencer’s shoulder. But he doesn’t, this interaction was his fault anyway.

William looks up and down, smiling at what he sees. Spencer’s jaw tightens.

_That isn’t fair. This man doesn’t deserve to look at him like he’s proud of what he’s raised. He didn’t. He left. And Spencer’s been on his own for seventeen years because of it._

Rossi, ever the mediator of the situation, seems to sense the protective flare gurgling up in Morgan’s gut, because the conversation is quickly shuffled away behind the closed door of William’s office.

\----

Rossi reclines himself comfortably in a leather seat. William takes one diagonally opposite from him, sat forward in the chair and keeping his attention on where Spencer stands by the door, across from Morgan. It’s obvious he’s trying to look casual, unfazed. To William, perhaps it works. For Morgan and Rossi who know profiling as well as they do Spencer, it’s enough to gauge the discomfort and absolute revulsion at being stuck in this office with an estranged father.

“You don’t look like me anymore,” William says. Spencer’s eyebrows raise in lazily hidden distaste as the man continues. “You used to. Everybody said so,” he glances to Morgan and Rossi. There is a tone in his voice and an expression hanging on his face that make it seem like he’s having a great catch-up with several old mates. Like some washed out, domestic barbeque with friends.

Morgan knows it’s a defensive way to hide how uncomfortable he probably is, but he can’t stop himself from thinking about how satisfying a sharp smack upside the man’s head might be.

“They say some people look like their dogs, too,” Spencer interjects. The lines in his expressions are strong, his eyes about as hard as the typically caring hazel can come across. “It’s attributed to prolonged mutual exposure.” And there it was, the ball-dropper. William drops his head, partly in shame, mostly in repent of his failed attempt at making this light.

_That’s right. You left him, you suffer his – admittedly soft – wrath, considering what you’ve done to him._

As Spencer continues to speak, William takes a moment to glance in his direction. Morgan keeps his face tame, looks at his co-worker who deserves so much more than he’d ever been given and ignores the man on the couch. “They unconsciously mimic the expressions of people they’ve been around their whole life,” Spencer says.

William grows increasingly distressed.

Derek’s gaze is unwavering in its faith to Spencer. “So, it kind of – kind of makes sense that I wouldn’t really look like you. I haven’t seen you in almost twenty years.” From the corner of his eye he sees William nodding, taking the silent admonishment, but he finds himself so focused on the kid he doesn’t take note of it.

Spencer seems outwardly composed, but Derek sees it, Rossi may have missed it but he notices. It is tiny, unnoticeable to anyone who wasn’t looking for it.

Spencer’s chin wobbles.

Just twice, at the most.

The kid grits his teeth and steels his posture as soon as he has his emotions under control. But that’s just it. He _shouldn’t have to._

The bubble of guilt rears up, leaving that ever-soft feeling that arises when the kid looks at him with _something_ in his eyes, alone and shrivelled in his chest. The shame-globule pops like bile, leaving a disgusting, monstrous taste in Morgan’s throat.

“Agent Rossi will be speaking with you for the time being, if that’s alright,” he says tenaciously. Rossi straightens up, not arguing with the turn in events. They had done enough preliminary research for Rossi to carry the line of questioning over to a certain city council investigation until they are back.

William opens his mouth to speak, but Morgan speaks louder, over the man who hasn’t managed to slip a word in edgewise. “A word, if you will,” he grits in Reid’s direction.

Spencer, the stubborn thing, opens his mouth too. Derek puts one hand on his shoulder, the other at the small of his back as he spins the man and guides him out of the god-awful office without another sound.

“Morgan,” he starts when they are only hallway down the hall.

He makes a noise through tight-pressed lips, something akin to _‘uh-uh’_ which effectively shuts the kid up until he’s pushed firm against the porcelain sinks once more.

“Morgan –”

“No.”

“Mor –”

_“Spencer,”_ he exceeds. This is not business, this is personal, and he’s making that line incredibly clear for Spencer who’s now blinking at him incredulously. “Roll up your sleeve,” he says, calmer now.

“Are you kidding me? We are not doing this right now.”

“Please.” They stare at each other; Derek’s breaths are less controlled now that he doesn’t have to coach them. “ _Please,_ let me see.”

Spencer holds the eye contact, and for several long moments Derek is half sure he’s going to storm out of the men’s room and back into that office.

Instead, he sighs frustratedly and begins popping the buttons at his right wrist. When he’s done, he neatly rolls the material until it catches at his elbow, then continues to push it upwards until it’s gathered beside his shoulder.

“There,” he practically growls. “You happy?”

It’s not a pretty sight, far from the scars they’d seen on the victims of the case when this all started. Those victims had neat, perfectly measured rectangles covering where there had once assumedly been a name. Spencer’s bicep was marred with a patch of uneven, burnt-over skin that held rough edges and raw, crescent-shaped nail marks from what must have been _months_ of nightmares. 

Derek knows what the difference is and what it means. It’s a clear indicator of when someone gets their mark legally and safely removed by a professional once they’re eighteen. This – Spencer’s scar – it’s a product of lost souls who’ve had someone essentially welt them at home or let a back alley nobody who’d do anything for a couple hundred bucks in their back pocket do it themselves.

And it _hurts_. 

It hurts him when he runs one finger over it, closing his eyes and tracing the mark as if he could somehow feel his own name hidden beneath it. 

And it hurts when he looks up and sees Spencer’s face, splotchy red with shame and pinched to hide the watery look in his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know how to change the over presiding end note but at this point you probably aren't gonna be able to read this as platonic soulmates :| 
> 
> Gimme CM prompts pls <3  
> tumblr ~ @svn-f1ower


	4. Develop At Our Own Pace

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long!
> 
> First three chapters have been updated a little (edited really) so less mistakes, a few extra bits of dialogue, writing, nothing major.

Spencer inhales sharply when Derek finally lifts his hand away from the scarring. He focuses everything he has into blinking away the rapidly forming tears in his eyes.

_God_ he hated this. _It’s so stupid._ There were thousands of people out there who never even meet the person of the name on their skin, and thousands more who were born without one. Or worse, people like Hotch who had settled down only to have their entire life uprooted when their second half is taken away from them.

So, why is he any different?

“You don’t deserve this,” Morgan says quietly. His voice is thick in the space of the small washroom, almost drowned out by the soft patter of fingers against keyboards from all the rooms surrounding the hallway.

“Don’t _pity_ me,” Spencer gripes. Derek blinks twice, shifting one step further from Spencer until the small of his back hits the rows of sinks. “I don’t want your sorrow. I want an answer.” He peels back his sleeve, ignoring how the sensitive patch of skin complains beneath the fabric.

“I don’t pity you. I don’t feel sorry for you in the way you think I do.”

Spencer looks upwards, craning his neck until he’s staring right into Derek’s eyes. He is calculating in a way that feels as though he can see past everything Morgan has built walls to hide. The prolonged exposure stretches on until Spencer’s shoulders finally seem to relax and he looks away, dropping his head again.

“I just don’t understand why I – why I can’t just be _normal_.” His voice is weak, and he trails off on the last word because he knows what Morgan will think of him.

_You aren’t normal._

And although it hurts to believe that is what his teammate could think of him, he knows it’s true. He’s years younger than the rest of the team, spent his school years as an outcast thanks to his age, intellect and mutilated soul mark.

“Don’t say things like that,” Derek says sadly.

“I just want to know who’s supposed to love me,” the kid murmurs. His head is still hung, and the most Derek can do is wait patiently to meet his eyes.

He couldn’t imagine living his entire life without true companionship – without the validation that you could love and _were_ loved by someone. Morgan had his father until he was ten and both his sisters as well as their mother. From his late high-school years all the way through college and his earliest years in the BAU he had continual relations with women – and a few men – that made it incredibly clear he was worth their time, despite the interactions lasting no more than a night.

Spencer – he had nobody. His father left, which consequently invalidated the ten years he had with the man, he was a social outcast, his mother… well, his mother’s love deteriorated along with her illness until some days she hardly recognised him as her son. The kid never spoke of any romantic interludes.

So, of course the poor kid was hanging onto threads, desperate with the need to know who could be inclined to love him above anything else, who was destined to be there for him as nobody else ever had.

_I just want to know who’s supposed to love me._

Spencer looked utterly defeated, red-rimmed eyes and an unsteady lower lip only solidified that fact. He didn’t want to know because he had to understand everything, he wanted to know because he _needed_ a companion.

Morgan could live for years knowing the kid matched the name on his thigh, understanding the pull he had for the younger man. But Reid had nobody and no clue if there was even somebody out there for him.

“I’m sorry,” Derek conceded. The now familiar harsh press of guilt throbbed against his ribcage.

Spencer rubbed the heel of his palm against one eye, pushed back his hair and took a shaky breath inwards.

“’S not your fault,” the kid pointed out. He expected there to be bitterness in the words, but in its place was resignation.

As if Spencer had accepted being loved was simply not for him.

And if that didn’t hurt more than physically tracing the wound himself, Derek was lying.

“Spencer, it – it’s actually a pretty common first name.”

The kid huffed on a gentle laugh, letting the hand that had previously pressed against his eyes run along the curve of his neck.

“You sound like me,” he jokes.

“I figured you spelled Reid without the ‘i’ when we first met.” Spencer frowns, his brow line lowering as he picks apart what Derek is saying.

“R-e-e-d, you mean?” Morgan nods his affirmation, hooking two fingers into the belt loop of his pants and toying with the buckle absently. “Okay…” the kid punctuates, clearly not following.

Derek keeps quiet and motionless for a long moment, waiting until Spencer turns to occupy himself with the faucet before unbuckling his belt.

The kid is entirely distracted until the tinkling of metal against metal has his attention again and he swivels to investigate. “Morgan!” He blanches, snapping violently to turn and stare back at his reflection, doing everything he can to avert his eyes when the sound of his co-worker’s zipper fills the room.

His cheeks flush a dark red and he covers his face with one hand again, still facing away from Derek. “Shit – Morgan, what are you –”

“R-e-i-d made… well, it makes a big difference, I guess.” Spencer jolts when Morgan lays a hand against his shoulder blade, resting gently in invitation for him to turn back around.

Derek has one side of his pants shoved down to his knee and the other hiked halfway up his thigh. Beneath the line of his boxers, not even an inch away from where his femoral artery must be, is a patch of dark, scrawled lettering.

“You don’t need to do this to make me feel better,” Spencer mumbles, squinting from where he stands beside the sinks to make out the script.

“Actually, I think I should’ve done this a lot – a lot earlier,” Derek responds. “That’s why I apologised. Not because I pity you, kid.”

“Mhm,” Spencer hums, leaning forward from where his hands brace the porcelain to read the curled lettering.

_Spencer Reid_ is swirled across the man’s darker skin in an array of elaborate cursive and slanted letters.

Morgan guesses the kid’s face has paled by roughly three shades when he blinks back up at him. His eyes are wide and owlish, like an animal caught in headlights. He licks his lips once – a nervous habit Derek has picked up on – and opens his mouth to speak.

“I’m not playing,” he interjects before Spencer can get a word in edgewise. He smears one finger across the marking, pressing down hard enough to crumple the divisive belief that he would ever toy with the kid’s emotions like that.

He waits patiently for Spencer to gather his bearings enough to do anything other than swallow thickly and blink several hundred times in the space of a few seconds.

_This was it_ he told himself. _I’ve waited over thirty years for this, I can hold out a little longer._ He spent the first twelve years of his life wondering if this ‘Spencer Reid’ would be female or not – funnily enough, statistics weren’t in his favour with over ninety-six percent of ‘Spencer’s’ being male. 

His thirteenth, fourteenth and majority of his fifteenth years were spent wishing he didn’t have a name on his skin, wishing there wasn’t somebody out there destined to put up with him, especially after the youth centre. After the cabin. He spent the remainder of his high-school and early college years trying to ignore the fact that there _was_.

From twenty until twenty-eight, he was indifferent. Fate or no fate, he was stable. He could live his life with or without someone ingrained into his every molecule, it was merely a matter of whether he felt towards them what he was supposed to, and if they could return it.

He wasn’t overtly hopeful, working the way he did with half his time in various states on a case was hardly the ideal situation if he were to find somebody.

But then there was Spencer.

Of course, when they had first met, he had thought nothing of it. There hadn’t been some resounding realisation, he didn’t look at the kid and _know_ there was something special there. In fact, he’d viewed this Doctor ‘Reed’ – or so he’d thought – as any other co-worker, minus the confidence and years of experience.

But things were far from his initial impression of the kid now.

He was half paranoid Spencer was going to pass out on him judging by the colour of his skin and the faraway look in his dark eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he apologises, hoping to prompt the kid back into reality. “I shouldn’t have let this go on so long,” he glances back towards the door, painfully conscious of the fact that Rossi was still stuck in an office with William Reid.

“Did you know that eighteen-point-forty-two percent of the American population who have met their second half categorise themselves as platonic mates,” Spencer babbles.

Despite himself and the situation he is tangled amongst, Morgan grins.

“I don’t think I fit that statistic, Pretty Boy,” he says in return. Spencer flushes darkly once more, squirming in his place as Morgan hikes his pants back up and pulls the belt through its buckle. “Not for a while, at least.” He forces his grin to loosen into a mellow smile as he rests his own frame against the sinks.

Spencer is quiet a moment, picking at the edge of his nails and staring at the grout between the floor tiles like they hold knowledge he desperately wants to partake in.

“Are you – did you… were you disappointed?” His voice is so soft Derek has to lean forward to make out the broken question the kid spent minutes trying to force out. His expression must read as puzzlement because Spencer repeats himself. “Were you _unhappy_ , I mean. When you realised, we were – I was supposed to… I don’t know.”

“No,” he answers immediately. Shaking his head and straining to meet the kid’s unpredictable gaze, he corrects, “I could never want more than this.” Morgan gestures to the space between the two of them, “this is – it’s right. You get me?”

From the look on Spencer’s face, Derek assumes not, but he expected as much. The kid had spent his entire life without secure, loving relationships, not to mention the constant unknown of whether he was ever fated to _be loved_. So, he didn’t envisage the revelation would change much of the bleak, dismal outlook Spencer must have on life and affection.

“You know that I – that I’m not good with… with this,” Spencer says unsurely. Derek nods, because he does know that the kid has always struggled coping with too many of his emotions at once. “But I don’t, I guess I don’t want to – to mislead you.” He’s dragging the soles of his work shoes against the tile, keeping his head downcast as he speaks.

“Spencer,” Morgan prompts. He waits several seconds until he’s sure the kid won’t turn away from his eyes again. “This doesn’t have to change anything,” he points out carefully. “I’m not going to expect any different of you.”

“You aren’t?” Spencer ventures, skepticism blazing in his expression.

“’Course not, kid.” Obviously, Derek wasn’t opposed to developing what the two of them had, but he also didn’t want to press the two of them in a direction they couldn’t come back from pre-emptively.

Spencer nods his understanding, lips pressed together. Morgan can’t help but outstretch one hand and wrap it around the junction of Spencer’s shoulder and neck, squeezing once. “That isn’t to say I would be averse to things progressing on their own, okay?”

“Yeah,” the kid mumbles. There is the hint of a smile emerging at the corner of Spencer’s mouth, and it effectively settles the writhing guilt that had previously lodged itself in the pit of Derek’s chest. “Thank you,” Spencer says gently. Two fingers from his right-hand fold upwards to rest against the hand Morgan still has laid over his shoulder. They curl around to hook into his index finger for a moment, pausing briefly before dropping away again.

_Progress_ , Derek counts.

\----

By the time Rossi has run out of gas along the sentiment of the company’s city council investigation, William Reid has probably only broken his eye contact with the door to his office once or twice.

He half understands the man’s discomfort, but it’s hard for him to sympathise with a man who contributed this much to their youngest agent’s abandonment issues.

Dimly, from the hallway he can hear Morgan speaking with the receptionist, and he doesn’t hesitate to wrap up his time with the businessman in front of him.

“Thank you, Mr. Reid. We’ll be in contact.” It’s habit to assure that, but Rossi highly doubts any of their team will bother to follow up with the man. The investigation doesn’t hold any weight for the FBI, or at least not enough to significantly matter.

“Weren’t you here about my son?” The man asks, shifting upwards from his chair as Rossi stands himself.

He bites back a retort on the fact that William was hardly the boy’s father, and Spencer was hardly a son as a consequence of such.

“Not exactly. Doctor Reid is consulting on this case with us, we aren’t speaking with your department because of him.” He turns the handle of the office door, surprisingly grateful to be out of the small space with the man. The lie doesn’t faze him in the slightest.

Morgan looks up from the curved reception desk and gives him a curt nod, his gaze not even bothering to pass over William who exits his own office.

“Hey, Spencer,” the man greets with less unease in his tone than beforehand. He runs a wary eye up and down over Morgan, before focusing his attention on Spencer who stands at his side.

Derek can feel the length of the kid’s body stiffen up all over again, even if he’s only standing three inches away. “Can we have a quick word?” William asks, his head tilting to the side in indication of a very obviously private chat.

“We actually have a multitude of cases to work on and leads to look in on. I’m sorry, I don’t have time for conversing,” Spencer replies evenly. Morgan holds himself in place, wanting so painfully to offer a reassuring hand at his arm.

To his credit, William nods soberly in understanding at the kid’s words, not pressing him any further.

“Good to go?” Rossi asks. Derek looks to Spencer, who loosens himself and nods in affirmation.

“Yeah, ready.”

Derek cautiously allows himself to rest one arm around his shoulders again as they exit the building and pass through the parking lot. He is pleased to note the impressive amount of tension Spencer had held in his posture beforehand has retreated largely.

Rossi regards them both with a careful once-over, his eyes squinting in an emotion vaguely reminiscent of calculating, like one of them would regard a suspect. But there’s compassion there somewhere, and Spencer might be too busy – trying not to lean so harshly into Morgan’s arm that they both topple over – to notice.

Morgan can see it, at least. There is a sense of knowing, of understanding, that is shepherded his way from Rossi’s gaze.

\----

The three of them leave in the respective vehicles they arrived in, and Derek finds himself in a much more comfortable silence with Spencer in the passenger seat at his side.

Rossi takes a two-part flight with a layover in between, claiming he has a ‘colleague’ to catch up with. Morgan doesn’t press for details, – doesn’t want to be regaled with his co-worker’s love life – and instead happily agrees to let Hotch know once himself and Reid arrive back in Quantico.

They retrieve what little luggage they have from the hotel – go-bags and not much more – before circling back to the public airport. Rossi’s flight is immediate, while Morgan and Reid spend an extra hour wandering the building.

Derek is content to watch the kid zip through several paperbacks from various bookstores, slowly nursing a coffee as he goes.

“Almost wish we’d held out for the jet and gotten Hotch to pull a few strings,” he complains as the two of them stand in an endless line for boarding.

“Do you know how much budget cutting we’d have to do for the next month?” Spencer replies, swinging on his heels with one hand wrapped around the strap of his satchel.

“Please,” Derek laughs. “You tellin’ me a couple cases worth of doubling up for the night isn’t worth four blissful hours of uninterrupted flight time?” Spencer raises one eyebrow, a smile breaking through his façade.

“No,” he mutters. “Nothing wrong with sharing a hotel room, I guess.”

Derek snorts humorously, waiting for Spencer before sidling onto the plane and slipping into the seat next to his. They spend quarter of an hour waiting as the rest of the passengers board, talking idly about the case and newer ones they could potentially consult on.

When the overhead announcements have finished – which is an unfamiliar occurrence on their own jet – the plane starts rolling down the runway. Halfway into take-off, Derek moves his hand to the divider rest between their seats, knuckles tightening around the small grip bar.

His head is pressed back into his seat, eyes shut as if the stress in the rest of his body weren’t ruining his calm veneer. Spencer wasn’t oblivious, he knows the slightly older agent has never been a fan of taking off and landing, but things seem tenser in a public plane than a cushy private jet.

Instinctively, he places his own palm against Derek’s taught fingers, resting them gently on top as an attempted reassurance.

Spencer’s ears pop as they reach altitude and he hardly notices as Derek flips his hand and intwines their fingers for a brief moment, tightening his grip before loosening up again.

Nothing was changing between them at a drastic pace. More so, the relationship was developing in its own right, and neither of the two agents seemed to oppose the idea of such.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I lowkey dislike this ending, and I'm sure if you looked at statistics, majority of fics similar to this end in smut *gasp* but that - apparently - ain't how I roll. (?)
> 
> I have so many other fic ideas, one of which is another soulmate one but in a very very different vein, angstier, sadder, happy ending obviously but you gotta get through a lot to get there. Moreid, duh.  
> It's the kind of idea you get and you grow so attached to that every night before you sleep you're just picturing the story arc and the lil plot points until your brain hurts and you justwannawriteitdamn!
> 
> Anyway, I don't know - I hope this is satisfactory enough, sorry in advance if you're like meh at the end of it.  
> Throw prompts, headcanons, ideas, fic recs (damn gimme some good moreid fic recs I'll love you forever), either on my tumblr ( https://svn-f1ower.tumblr.com/ ) or just in the comments.

**Author's Note:**

> So you can read that as a romantic or platonic soulmate mark, because honestly it could go either way.
> 
> Scream CM prompts and requests and ideas at me on my tumblr (same username as on here) pls I'm craving it <3
> 
> \----
> 
> Give @spidersonangst @febufluff-whump (on Tumblr) all the credit, the only reason this is happening this month is because of them!


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